Amsterdam Sixty-One: Night Cycling on Shrooms

I woke up feeling like hell. The alarm clock read 8:30 AM. I made myself get up and saw Daniel sleeping on the couch. I took a shower, forcing myself through the hangover. Once the water started flowing I felt better a little better. I brushed my teeth, wrapped a towel around me, and went to my room to change. Daniel was awake, watching the news. “I have instant coffee. Want a cup?” He nodded his head while lighting a cigarette. I made a couple cups and took them into the living room. I had a cigarette and blankly looked at the news. Nothing registered.

When Daniel saw the time he asked me if I wanted to go to Bloem with him. I shrugged my shoulders. “I have to get my keys. I called Isa; he said he’d meet me there. I’ll make you an omelet and some good coffee.” I laughed. “Sure. Sounds good.” We got our bikes and cruised down the Amstel. I rarely went this way to Bloem. I looked back at a huge picture window on Keizersgracht, stopped pedaling, and turned around. Daniel stopped, too. I pointed at the window. There was a painting so realistic yet space age that my jaw dropped. I motioned to Daniel and we went over to take a closer look at it. I said, “Damn, I need to start painting. Look at those colors.” Daniel replied “It’s photoshopped, blown-up and air-brushed.” As I looked closer I discovered he was right. I was disappointed. To have created that image by hand using paint would have been astounding, something few people in the world could have accomplished.

We rode slowly over to Bloem, talking painting and art on the way. Even though I liked the image created in the window, I agreed with Daniel that something had been lost in the digital age, the workmanship, skill, talent, and practice necessary when painting by hand while using brushes and other instruments for application. I had little respect for splatter painting as well. With digital technology, though, nearly anyone could create fantastic images without much time, effort, or skill; that diminished my appreciation because I was too aware that so little time and energy had been necessary in the creation of those images. They engendered boredom which was a shame because beauty became insignificant. If beauty could be created as easily as yawning what was it really offering? Daniel said, “It’s like coffee or winemaking. Yes, instant coffee will provide caffeine and a box of wine a good buzz, but if your palette is refined the difference between instant coffee and a fine espresso are divided by centuries. Technology in this sense reverses progress, diminishes art.”

I looked over at Daniel. I admired his sensibility. Fortunately, I was wearing my shades as the sun was blinding. He continued, “I haven’t seen a good painting for years. Not a contemporary painting. The techniques being used … it’s not art; it’s design.” I understood the distinction. I agreed, although I said, “There is a place for good design, though.” Daniel replied emphatically, “I agree! But design is a poor substitute for art.” Damn, he sounded like me … or maybe I sounded like him. Didn’t matter. We were on the same wavelength.

“You know the sketches you looked at last night?” Daniel nodded. “I’m tiring of the black and white drawings and even the colored pencils. They don’t appeal to me anymore. I need paint on canvas to really create the images I see in my head. I keep think about it and the urge is getting stronger.” Daniel asked, “What’s holding you back?” What was holding me back? “I suppose it’s nothing more than being busy working and going out all the time. Besides, the only images in my head right now are an omelet and coffee.” 

We made our way down Middenlaan and turned north onto Kerklaan. The sun definitely took the edge off the cold. The bike ride invigorated me a little, but I needed that coffee. As we crossed the bridge, I noticed how attractive and inviting Bloem was in the sunshine. I tried to imagine what it was like with all the tables out next to the canal in the summer. Relaxed. Blissful.Gezellig. Daniel and I locked our bicycles. Isa was inside Bloem so we entered. He greeted us as he handed Daniel his keys. “One of those nights, eh?” Daniel held up his hands. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Isa put on his backpack. “I have a class otherwise I’d stay for a bit.” Daniel gave him a wave, “No, no, go to class. Thanks for coming on short notice, Isa.” He waved good bye to Daniel and I then went out the side door.

Daniel started the espresso machine and did his work quickly. He complained about the machine and said he had been trying to talk the owner into getting a new one. He pulled out a magazine and showed me a state-of-the-art industrial-sized espresso maker. He had done the math and said that during the busy seasons they could sell x more cups of espresso, coffee, and cappuccino making y more dollars. He estimated the machine would pay for itself in about a year and then it would be all profit. More importantly, to both of us, the quality would be significantly improved.

We drank the double espressos. I felt instantly better and Daniel went to the kitchen to make breakfast. He invited me back and I checked out the kitchen for the first time. He mentioned how he wanted a new this, new that, to reorganize, redesign the entire interior, and make the cafe into “what it could be.” He told me he was paid partially in shares of the restaurant and that he was, at the time, forty percent owner. He needed another 25,000 Euros to make it to fifty percent. The owner leased the building so if he could gain over fifty percent ownership he would have the freedom to make the changes he wanted; plus, the name Bloem would be his. He mentioned the owner had another restaurant in another part of the city which was where he spent most of his time—when he spent time at his cafés any more. Daniel exclusively ran the daily operations of Bloem.

Daniel worked about eighty hours per week. During my binge-indexing stretches I worked like that for a few months, usually six or seven days a week. But I always took long breaks after jags like that. That was how S. and I had found the time to travel Europe on our honeymoon as well as other trips to Europe and around the U.S. I enjoyed my leisure time and my life’s goal was to not work, at least not in any way that felt like work. Indexing was the closest I could come to autonomy while still making enough money to live a lifestyle I enjoyed. Daniel had mentioned he hoped to do the same and he thought if he could gain majority ownership or, especially, sole ownership he would be able to retire within five or so years. The sooner he gained a majority share the better.

I was spending money at a clip that wouldn’t allow me to continue coming to Amsterdam for long trips like this forever. The shrooming, the eating and drinking out, the cost of rent, and other expenses were too great. I would have to index a lot more, but if I did I would be working eighty hours per week, sacrificing the balanced lifestyle that made living worthwhile. Daniel’s job allowed him to be social while working and I liked that. I figured I could work in a place like Bloem, but I also saw that there were plenty of responsibilities besides the social that took up Daniel’s time and energy. Still, Daniel clearly liked his work.

I thought about the day before, too, realizing that while the trip to see Jeff and Andy had been for work, it also led to a night of revelry. I understood, better than before, that there was an entire network of people working in the café and bar scene and that they really knew what was happening in the city, the best night spots and the off-the-grid party scenes. To the average person, whether tourist, techie, or accountant, a waiter was probably just a waiter, but the reality was that many of the hottest scenes were known by the folks waiting tables, tending bar, and managing cafés. They were spread all over the city and they connected with one another.

Daniel fixed my omelet as we talked about his business possibilities. "I wish I had the money because being an investor might allow me to get legal residency." I thought of my credit line, my income, and I thought it would be so tight that I would never climb out of debt. “Maybe someday. If I’d cut back on my lifestyle I could probably save enough, maybe get a loan. It would be tough, though. But, damn, I would love to do it, both to be working with you and to be able to live in Amsterdam permanently.” Daniel said he would be happy to have me on board.

The conversation shifted to becoming a citizen or legal resident. Daniel said he had residency and was in the process of attaining citizenship. “I have the option of dual citizenship, but I would probably give up U.S. citizenship.” He mentioned that immigration laws in Holland were far tougher than in the U.S. He also mentioned that with the EU there were tons of foreigners from throughout Europe living in Holland because of the new residency laws. The most significant influx had been from Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Poland. “They bring a lot of crime, too.” I didn’t doubt it; it was similar in the United States. I thought of Vanessa and the story she told of how she had arrived in The Netherlands. I had looked up information on the Internet about the sex trade in Europe and Vanessa’s story was similar to stories described by human rights organizations.

I asked Daniel about other ways to become a resident or citizen. He said, "The best way would be to start a business, something that allowed you to hire employees. Anything that brings in more taxes to The Netherlands and provides jobs." I thought about this. "What if I started a guide service?" Daniel shook his head. "Too much competition. You'd have to come up with something special to offer that isn't otherwise being provided by other tour guides and companies. You could always try to become a tour guide yourself, but that's competitive, too." Hmmm. "What about becoming a shroom guide?" Daniel stopped what he was doing and looked up at me, laughing a little. "I have no doubt you'd be good at that, but I'm not sure that's the type of image Holland is looking to promote." Damn. Probably true.

"I suppose if I offered more refined and personalized guiding services. Individuals, couples, very small groups. Sex, drugs, fine dining, appreciation of good beers and liquors, introducing individuals to scenes they might not otherwise ever be able to find or experience during a short stay." Daniel nodded. "Possible. Unless you learned other languages you'd be serving exclusively English-speaking tourists." True. "There are enough English-speakers coming to Amsterdam. I could serve them exclusively. I'm not interested in guiding tourists, though. Travelers." Daniel again looked up at me, this time confused. I explained. "Individuals, couples, groups looking for more than the sights, more than just coffeeshops, people looking for experiences. In other words, I would be an experience guide." Daniel nodded his head. "I suppose that could work." I said, "If I drew up a business plan, marketed it, and found there was interest, maybe the government would grant me legal residency." Daniel laughed. "You'd working pretty hard just to try to live here." I considered that. "It would be worth it. The idea of not living here is ... I don't want to think about it right now."

I saw the clock reaching eleven. Daniel said he needed to go to his apartment to shower and change. He had been getting the place ready for customers as we talked. “With the sunshine it might get busy early.” I didn’t doubt him. “You can hang out if you want. I’ll be back soon.” I was tired but not as painfully hung over. The idea of biking back home wasn’t appealing. I figured I could go upstairs and nap on a bench then eat an early lunch. “Yeah, sounds good.” Daniel left through the side door and locked it from the outside. I walked upstairs to the windows looking out over the canal. It was such a beautiful day, walkers and cyclists passing on their way to somewhere. I went to the long bench against the wall and lied down. I used my jacket as a pillow and fell asleep.

Daniel woke me around 12:30. He put a cup of coffee on the table in front of me and said, “Customers are rolling in so ... time to wake up. I let you sleep for a little while, though.” I was disoriented. Waking up inside Bloem with sunshine glowing through the windows felt weird. There was a cute young woman sitting at a table next to the window. She wore earphones and tap-tap-tapped on her laptop. I drank my coffee in silence, my mind too groggy to think. The sun was glorious, but I wished it wasn’t. A dark, gloomy day would have been better. I rarely thought that, but even weak hangovers didn’t like bright sunshine.

Food. Needed more food. When I finished my coffee I walked downstairs. It wasn’t nearly as bright and for that I was grateful. I went to the bar and placed my cup near the sink. When Daniel came back around I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Seemed like the perfect thing for my queasiness. A cappuccino, too. Daniel made the cappuccino but said it might be a bit before my food was ready. I noticed there were several customers at tables and nodded. Daniel be-bopped around the café and I marveled at him. Where the fuck did the man get his energy? I suppose the coke had allowed me to drink more than I would have the previous night. That was probably why my hangover was worse than his. Then again ... 

I thought of Andy and his lively insanity. Made me chuckle. I could listen to him talk for ages and had no doubt he could outtalk the ages. I loved De Gekraakte Ketel and Gollem. I’d be making trips back there soon enough, I figured. I would need to look at a map to figure out where they were, though. I had just followed Daniel, working so hard to keep up that I didn’t get a good sense of the route we took.

Daniel gave me a glass of water when my food arrived. I hadn’t even thought about water, but a damn fine idea. Fleur entered as I ate and got right to work. She gave me a smile and I waved, my mouth too full to speak. She and Daniel were busy, anyway. I imagined Dorlan or maybe the college kid (Caesar? Chester? I couldn’t remember) was cooking. I felt better after eating. Another glass of water then I was ready to go. I talked with Daniel briefly. He thanked me again for giving him a place to sleep. “Hey, any time.” He slapped me on the back, I put on my jacket, waved goodbye to Fleur, and left. I unlocked my bike and slowly rode home, this time taking Kerklaan to Nieuwe Kerkstraat across the Magere Brug. When I passed Middenlaan and saw Eik en Linde I realized it had been a long time. How long?

Hell, I’d been in Amsterdam about a month; it couldn’t have been that long ago. A month in Amsterdam, though, seemed like a year given how active I was. It had been less than a week since I had worked, but it seemed like a month. I needed to get cracking again. After the three-day sex party and previous day with Daniel and Andy just about every waking moment had filled with extreme activity. I loved it, but I needed to be balanced. Work and sleep, important parts of life. If I had created human biology and the economic system I would have done things differently, but for some stupid reason I wasn’t given that power. Unfortunate for everyone. I would have been great as God.

When I arrived home I locked my bike, went inside, and slipped into bed. Fuck, that felt good. I dozed off for a few hours. When I woke it was nearly five. I dressed and opened my laptop. I indexed for a bit and checked my email. Nothing from Sterre. A few emails from the States, fortunately none work-related. I replied to the emails then made some pasta. I saw the dose of McKennaii in the fridge. I forgot I purchased it before going to Bloem the day before.

Well, why not? I hadn’t dosed for nearly a week. I gobbled the shrooms along with the pasta. I needed a night for myself after socializing all week. I wanted to be outside, though. The temperature was relatively warm. I hadn’t really biked while shrooming. I needed to rectify that. I wanted to take in the architecture of Amsterdam, admire the canals, view the lights, appreciate the wanderers and cyclists as part of the city rather than individuals—I wasn’t dismissing their humanity; I simply wanted to appreciate Amsterdam as a whole rather than focusing exclusively on its parts.

I got dressed in my winter coat, scarf, and hat. Even though the temp was decent, cycling would make it colder. There was little wind, though; that was good. It was nearly nine when I left. The shrooms became active making it more difficult to unlock my bike. As I stood up and pulled the bike from the rack, I wondered if biking was a good idea. Probably best to cycle around areas I knew well. I started down Kerkstraat and made a left at Utrechtsestraat. I turned right on Prinsengracht and instantly felt soft and smooth on the dimly lit canal street with the beautiful trees lining it. I marveled at the lights in the windows of apartments. I slowed to look into one.

The apartment interior was beautiful. The walls were painted yellow and the soft lamp lights created an inviting glow. Antique furniture throughout. I felt like I was looking into a different century. A dignified older man walked into the room, sat on a chair, and opened a book. I was reading about him in a book of my own, sitting on an antique chair in a room of yellow reading about a man who was reading a book in an antique chair in a room of yellow. I was reading mirrors facing one another, the image of me reading about the man sitting in an antique chair in a yellow room repeating itself endlessly, the images becoming smaller and smaller and smaller; I was infinitely represented through reflection wondering if there was an original source I could call “me.”

The man looked up and saw me, snapping me out of infinity back into a moment, one not finite at all, a moment of totality in which nothing but the moment existed. Representation, especially static representation, was a lie—at least as representation. The mirror told the truth in the moment, it was what was reflected; a painting was a painting, not what anyone said it represented or meant. I realized I was staring at the man and that he was, in fact, real. Oh. I decided to pedal away as I didn’t want the man to have to look at me all night.

I turned north on Reguliersgracht, such a beautiful canal street. I felt the romance I always felt there, heightened by the shrooms. I was in love, completely, totally, madly in love. How could I have been anything but love? When I turned left onto Keizersgracht I understood why. I had become a stately gentleman, cycling through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a man of wealth and power, not averse to philanthropy; in fact, I embraced philanthropy because it told a story to others that I was a man worthy of being wealthy as my charitable giving attested. I gave as a means to bolster my ego, to become admired by others who had less, to shame my peers who gave so little in comparison. I was a great man, not in any spiritual, physical, emotional, or sensory way, but a great man of finance and ownership, a man considered great by those in stations lower than mine, a great man envied by peers, a man considered great by society and in history books being written even as I lived.

The surrounding environment made up who I was at any given moment. There was no "me" independent of the contexts surrounding me. I was always in relation to what was external, my senses stretching me outward beyond my body, my self never ending at the skin. It had always been that way and I realized earlier in life that truth even if I didn't express it in words. It was evident always, from the time of year (snow on the ground and Christmas versus green grass and Fourth of July fireworks) to the physical surroundings (Amsterdam canals and architecture versus Wal-Mart parking lots versus remote lakes in western Montana forests). If I had a core, perhaps my body, it was a core that changed in relation to my surroundings, the cold affecting it much differently than extreme heat. My thoughts and emotions differed while nakedly embracing a women versus being ridiculed for wearing a shirt inside out. Individuality was so much different than "individualist" ideologies had led people of Westernized cultures to believe.

I crossed over Vijzelstraat. I had to speed up—I had been riding so slowly I may as well have been walking. There was a tram creeping toward me from the north, a giant metallic worm squirming over asphalt and brick. It whirred and screeched; it sounded hungry, looking to devour pedestrians and cyclists through the mouths on each side of its body. A strange creature, one I didn’t want to fuck with at all. Once I had safely passed Vijzelstraat I looked back and saw it pass out of view. I breathed a sigh of relief, happy it hadn’t turned to follow me. I was pretty sure I could have out-pedaled it, but I was glad not to be involved in a worm-tram bicycle chase. It might have made for a great scene in a Jason Bourne movie, but I had no interest in becoming a movie star.

I slowed to admire the tree-lined canal and the glorious mansions that lined it. The tram had shook me from my thoughts and I coasted to the rail of the canal so I could look out over the water. The current was moving slowly. I saw the reflection of the lights from the fourth and fifth floor apartments in the water. They were wavy and inviting. I wondered if I dove into the water if I would enter a Keizersgracht living room. What a surprise it would be to the underwater couple living there. I left them in peace and turned my bike back to the street.

Leidsestraat demanded I stop. There were cars, cyclists, and pedestrians traveling up and down the street. I didn’t mind waiting. It was like watching a parade go by. “Look at us,” said the cars, “we go ‘vroom-vroom.’” The cyclists were chill and said nothing. Their body language communicated that they were yoga kings and queens and that their feet never touched the ground. The walkers told me, though, that the cyclists live in the air. “They are our gods and we, mere mortals, watch them go by with wonder and awe.” I thought, “I’m a cyclist.” I peddled across the street and waved to a pedestrian. He must have felt thrilled that I had acknowledged his existence. It probably wasn’t every day that a god smiled on him.

I pedaled over the bridge spanning Leidsegracht then took a left onto Runstraat. I rode over the Prinsengracht bridge turning left on to the shorter bridge spanning Looiersgracht, stopping on the arch of the bridge, standing on the pedals of my bike, balancing, turning to look each direction at the canal passing beneath the bridge. To the north was Prinsengracht and to the south was Looiersgracht. There was a quieter beauty on Looiersgracht. I felt a new wave of romance overtake me as I dismounted my bike. The romance differed from that of Reguliersgracht. This romance was younger, not yet completely full, a child’s romance, one still budding. I walked the romance to south side of the bridge and rested my bicycle against the railing. I leaned on the metal railing and looked out over the canal. I couldn’t get over the lights reflecting on the water.

I saw rusty red become neon orange, the edges lightning yellow, a cloud of white below the softest pink was smudged here and there with fuchsia, and between the vertically aligned whiteness there was the blackness of the sky, a blackness come alive by the neon orange, the lightning yellow, and the puffy pink. They each had vibrancy and while none blended there were no lines of demarcation between them, each existing as one in relation to the others. I thought again of painting, that I needed color, more color for creation. But not now, no, not now. The city was painting itself and I was the viewer. As I moved up and down the bridge the colors shifted. I was collaborating with the lights, creating new colors on the water. This was watercolor painting! I thought it was wonderful that it would disappear as soon as I left while the potential existed for the colors to return for any eyes that looked at the canal while crossing the bridge.

I turned to cycle east along Prinsengracht and turned left onto Rozengracht. I took the first right and realized I was in the southern edge of the Jordaan neighborhood. The streets we narrower. I had rarely visited this area during my Amsterdam visits, certainly not this far south in the Jordaan. I roamed up and down streets, not bothering to keep track of names. Most of the streets were residential, but there were often shops at intersections and certain streets had shops, bars, and cafes here and there in the middle of the blocks, existing side-by-side with residential buildings. I thought I was heading east at times, but whenever turned I thought, “No, I had been heading north.” Eventually it dawned on me that I no fucking idea where I was. I decided to cycle straight until the street came to a “T” or crossed a major street.

As I rose, though, I continued admiring the differences in architecture and street layouts in the Jordaan. Historically, the neighborhood had been poorer and Jewish, but now it was hip, trendy, and pricey. The proximity to Prinsengracht and the city center undoubtedly led to its gentrification, but in terms of appearances the architecture spoke of its humbler past. There were renovations, though, that gave clues to its present. To the north the neighborhood was even pricier; that may have been due to the Anne Frank House and the proximity to Amsterdam Centraal. There was more shopping as a result of the tourists and travelers in the area, those who typically spent money readily. Before and after tours they likely went out to eat or shopped. Hard to imagine anyone feeling like eating after touring the Anne Frank House, though. I felt nauseous after visiting it the first time and the shopping around the area just felt wrong, almost insulting.

Still, I was fascinated by how neighborhoods changed over time, especially in a city as old as Amsterdam. The architecture might remain the same, the urban layouts, too, but the interiors of apartments, shops, and cafés told stories about what the areas had become. Combined with the amount of cycling and foot traffic as well as the way individuals were dressed, it wasn’t difficult to tell what any particular neighborhood had become no matter its past. History was best told through time spent wandering the geography of a city; certainly the current climate could be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt. Names and dates might provide an assist, but relying on such information alone distorted the truth. Renovations, repaving of streets, the dress of individuals in particular neighborhoods, where tourists flocked and where they didn't weren’t found in history books even though they were more critical to understanding the way things were and are than whether King so-and-so ruled from 1647 to 1709. Reality was too complex to be adequately described through names, dates, and major events.

I eventually found Prinsengracht again. The shrooms had mellowed so I pedaled at a faster clip while enjoying the scenery on the way home. My body felt loose, easy. I was awash in a gently waving gratitude toward the city. When I reached Vijzelstraat I turned left and biked to Kerkstraat, turning right on my way to my apartment. As I parked my bike, my thoughts shifted toward the next day. I needed to index.

I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I entered the apartment. It felt cozy. I took off my coat, scarf, gloves, and hat, changed out of my clothes into sweats then drank a couple glasses of water. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the living room. I loaded a bowl of Arjan's, puffed away, and opened the window to have a cigarette. I drank more beer, sat on the floor, opened my sketch book, picked up a pen, and scratched out lines and curves, shading now and then to create something that looked like nothing in particular.

Amsterdam Sixty: Daniel, Nina, Andy, and ...

That afternoon I cruised over to Bloem. It seemed like months since I had been there. I brought my day bag with my camera, dugout, sketch book, and pens. It was mid-afternoon and Nina was there, her laptop open at the end of the bar next to the sink. Daniel was standing next to her wearing ear buds, listening to whatever Nina was playing for him. Daniel saw me and took out the ear buds. He handed them to me, “Here, Michael, see what you think.” I put the buds into my ear and listened as Nina looked at me expectantly. I heard thumping, an electronic beat with heavy bass, minimalist techno or house. It sounded good. I removed the ear buds and handed them to Nina. “So, what do you think?” I said, “I’d love listening to that while shrooming. Who’s the DJ?” Nina proudly beamed. “Me. Part of a mix I’m making for a competition in a couple of weeks. You should come. Daniel’s coming, too.”

Daniel was organizing glasses behind the bar. “I am?” Nina adopted her angry voice and said, “Yes, you’re coming. We talked about this.” Daniel nonchalantly waved a hand, “Okay. Let me know when and where.” Nina gesticulated wildly. “I wrote it down for you, Daniel!” I could see the corners of Daniel’s mouth slightly curl before they settled back into a ho-hum state of utter boredom. “Oh. Okay.” Nina was earning her nickname, The Angry Lesbian. “Do you still have the paper?” Daniel shrugged and turned away to inventory. “Oh, I suppose it’s somewhere.”

I laughed as I put my bag down on the bar and took a seat next to Nina. She was still brewing, but she put on her headphones and went back to her music. “The coast is clear, Daniel.” He turned to me, smirking. “It’s too easy with her.” I shook my head, chuckling, “You’re evil.” Daniel poured me a beer as I went to the rack to hang up my coat and day bag. I pulled out my camera, though, before walking back to the bar. Daniel went to gather glasses and dishes from the tables and put them down near the sink. They were right next to each other. Perfect.

As I sat down in front of my beer, I aimed the camera at them and snapped a shot. They both looked up and said, “Hey!” as if I had slapped them on the ass. I laughed and looked at the image. Daniel had his eyes closed, unfortunately. “That one didn’t turn out. Let me take one more.” They protested meagerly, but I insisted. Neither changed positions much. Nina adjusted her hair and Daniel stood at the bar. I snapped the shot and looked at it. A decent shot, as good as I was going to get because they weren't going to give me another chance. I showed them the photo. They both nodded, mild approval, then went back to doing their thing.

I asked Nina how her classes were going before she put her headphones on again. She didn’t look up from the computer, but said, “Fine.” Okay, a conversation with Nina was out. She was too busy mixing. I asked Daniel how he was doing. “Okay. It’s been slow today, though.” I said, “Well, I’ll give you something to do.” I looked at the menu and ordered a vegetable salad with peanut sauce. Daniel went back to make it—Dorlan wasn’t in yet.

Daniel returned with my salad and poured me another beer. “Hey, Nina, you want anything to drink? It’s on me.” She continued staring at her laptop and said no. Just as I was thinking that I was getting bored—something that rarely happened in Amsterdam—Daniel asked me if I wanted to take a trip with him to the Nieuwe Zijde to look at specialty beers. I perked up. He said Isa and the owner of Bloem would be in soon and we could bike over.

When the owner arrived, Daniel introduced me. He was a tall man, a bit overweight, and balding. Daniel said something to him in Dutch and the owner turned and shook my hand vigorously with a broad smile that made him look younger than his years. I wasn’t sure what was said, but it was obviously something good about me. Daniel and I said goodbye to Nina, but she barely looked up. “Yeah, have fun.” I put on my coat and backpack then we went outside, unlocked our bikes, and cycled away.

Riding alongside Daniel was like a cycling version of the Running of the Bulls. He was an adventurous madman zipping in and out of pedestrian, cycling, scooter, car, and tram traffic. Yet, he was nonchalant even though he was racing at breakneck speed. I struggled to keep up, pedaling my ass off just to keep pace with what appeared to be a leisurely ride for him. His face never changed expression and his body language suggested he was completely at ease. Moment to moment it appeared he would crash into someone or something, but at the last second he would make the perfect move to dart out of trouble. The precision of his movements resembled the work of a master craftsman. He was a bicycling performance artist. His approach at every intersection was impeccably timed. We pulled to a stop once on the whole trip across the Oude Zijde to the Nieuwe Zijde. He left not just cyclists in the dust but scooters, too.

I learned to follow his every move, to trust his instincts without question, and I managed to escape danger without a scratch time and time again. I focused so intently I didn’t have time to feel awe. Daniel, meanwhile, talked to me as if we were lounging at Bloem. He told me we were headed to a beer shop called De Gekraakte Ketel (The Cracked Kettle), possibly the finest beer shop in Amsterdam, a world class beer shop with the best selections of beers from all over the beer-brewing world.

“We’re going to meet Jeff, the owner. Andy may be there, too. He's sort of a co-owner, Scottish--possibly crazier than anyone I know. Great guy, though. They both are. Jeff’s quieter, but they both know their beers. Connoisseurs.” What an awesome trip. I loved Daniel; he introduced me to the most fascinating people. Ten years working in the bar/café trade allowed him to meet people from all walks of life. I hadn't had many chances to hang out with Daniel outside of Bloem so I welcomed this adventure. Being able to quiz connoisseurs about great beer selections would be a bonus.

After a harrowing but exhilarating ride, we squeezed down a half street that looked like it was straight out of a Harry Potter movie. We parked our bikes and locked them to one another near a sign that read “Gollem.” I had read about the place, one of the best beer bars in Amsterdam. De Gekraakte Ketel was directly across the street. Daniel led the way and I followed him inside, looking back at Gollem, wanting to whet my whistle after the ride.

When we walked inside De Gekraakte Ketel, my mouth exploded into a smile. If there had been a joint selling arcane beers in a Harry Potter movie, this would have been the place. The walls were filled floor to ceiling with all manner of beers. The sizes and shapes varied as widely as the number in total. I thought there must have been over five hundred varieties within eyesight alone. I could tell there were more around a corner. The store was tiny, in the scheme of things, but magically contained more within it than physics allowed. The ceilings were very high, the walls sagged inward from the top, dark wood was everywhere, including the floors—the areas that could be seen; there were boxes of beers that needed to be unpacked, sorted, and shelved as well. I stepped over a box of beer to follow Daniel. He introduced me to Andy, a shorter guy with a mane of curly black hair reaching down just past his shoulders. He had a three-week stubble-beard growing and lively eyes overlooking dark circles below.

Daniel asked him how he had been and a thick Scottish accent exploded into the room. “Oy, Daniel, the woman, she’s driving me batty. Up all night fuckin’ and suckin’ then she invites her friend over and they start goin’ at it. I’m too spent to give her another wally so I just watch and pull me pecker to jump start ‘im but he’s goin' nowhere fast. Watchin’ ‘em was hot, I’ll say that without qualm, but damn if the woman isn’t going to take me to an early grave. Half past five this mornin’ her friend Maria comes over with ecstasy and we all got goin’ again. Her other friend—don’t even remember her name—was passed out in a tub, but me woman, Maria, and I, damn it to hell if we don’t start banging cherries and cabooses right on top of her. Next thing I know it’s halfway to noon and I’m thinkin’ I got no time for sleep, I'm workin’ a three-day shift, fuckin’ hell if I’m not, but how’m I gonna do it without any candy?”

Andy took a half breath before more music chimed from his throat: “I call me friend Nate but he’s snoggered somewhere in Leiden for crissake so I’m walkin’ on fumes, man, fumes. Wouldn’t you know, though, while I’m stumblin’ to me bike along comes a Sally I remember from the gray days. Sure enough she says she knows where the powders cookin’. I follow her down the zig-zags windin’ to a Seiver, hell if not a dozen, and we go into a fool’s zone, one I didn’t even know exists, but sure enough there it is, a table of it, topless women with breathers baggin’ snow into pouches the size of a tosser's head. I just need to get on the pine, but she fronts me a Wizard of Oz like I’m gonna be tossin’ baseballs for a season. What can I say, though, the clock’s tickin, I’m late as it is, so I says ‘Yeah, sport me a twenty-eight.’ Three bumps later, I’m fresh as a baby’s powdered bum. Half hour late, for sure, but still kickin’ and loaded for sale.”

I understood maybe half of what he said—not because of his accent, but because he spoke twelve words per second. Daniel took all of it in with a smile. “Your woman, she’s the painter, right?” Andy revved up again, “Oh, yeah, she’s the one. All of twenty-three, thinks she’s gonna live forever. She’s got me doin’ drugs I didn’t even know existed, and, hell, maybe they don’t, wouldn’t surprise me at all. What can I do, though? She’s twenty-fucking-three, a motor that won’t quit, and she invites her girlfriends over every fuckin' night. I’m not an old man, 33, but I got gaskets blowin’ and pistons shreddin’, know what I’m tellin' ya? Ah, hell, look who I’m talking to, the fuckin’ dragon slayer. You never age, do ya, ya fuckin’ Dutch Yankee. That boyish charm and crippling cool and you ridin' through the valley of smooth with the hottest hens flockin' to ya from heaven and hell.” Andy looked over at me, “If you ever see a woman turn ’im away then you know it's the end for all of us. Believe it, I'm tellin' ya. Truer words ne’er been spoken.”

Daniel kept smiling the same chill smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Andy, this is my friend, Michael. He’s American, living in Amsterdam.” Andy turned to me, “Ah, another Yank, eh? Well, by God, as long as you drink beer, smoke pot, and fuck women you’ll be all right.” Daniel turned to Andy, “I hate to cut the chit-chat short but I need to get that order straightened out.” Andy nodded his head. “Jeff’s upstairs, I’ll go up with ya.” They both headed toward the back to a steep staircase rising into a tiny opening in the ceiling. Andy turned to me and asked, “You wouldn’t mind watchin’ the store, would ya? ‘T’won’t be long, few minutes tops.” Um … “Yeah, no problem.” I hoped no customers came in because … what the fuck was I going to do? I took a closer look at one of the shelves. The beers had exotic names, exceptional artwork on the labels, dark browns and lights, caps of all colors, origins from different countries.

A few minutes turned into ten minutes fast. A young couple, a man and a woman, maybe thirty years old, walked inside. They nodded at me then gazed at all the beers on the walls. The woman had a guide book in her hand. That made me feel better. At least it wasn’t anyone who came regularly to make purchases. As they looked around the woman turned to me to ask how long the place had been in business. From her accent I guessed she was Australian. I had no fucking idea, but I said, “Oh, the place has been open since the dawn of time. It’s as old as Amsterdam. It wasn’t always a beer slinging joint. For the past three hundred years, though.” The woman asked what the place was before it became a beer tomb. I responded, “That I couldn’t tell you. The truth is in the books somewhere, but there are plenty of stories running about. Some say it was used as a hideout for witches, others that the last elf outside of Iceland lived here before being called home to settle a family dispute. Those are the more outlandish ones, but there are others a bit more plausible. A Spanish noble once lived in these parts and some say this was the house of his mistress. It’s also been said that the first dark-haired Dutch boy was born here. Changed the culture’s identity forever. It's been said that the Dutch proclivity for tolerance began as a result.”

The woman appeared to be fascinated. “Wonderful stories. I love European folklore.” Well, bullshit was a close relative of folklore so I figured I passed on something she could take home to write in her travel diary. Her boyfriend or husband or whatever walked over and asked how many different kinds of beers were for sale. “Your guess is as good as mine. I did the books for years but at a certain point it became overwhelming. I make guesses, but it depends on whether I’m wearing my glasses or not. I’ve got my contacts in right now so I’d say there’s at least a thousand different beers, maybe more if you count those upstairs. We get more all the time. Occasionally we sell some, but mostly we just collect them and admire the way they look on the walls.”

The guy paused, apparently trying to figure out if I was serious. He smiled and said, “Come on, be serious, mate.” I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, “I don’t know the exact number. What I can tell you is that this is the best beer shop in Amsterdam. Hands down.” The man pointed at the woman’s guide book and said, “Yeah, that’s what our travel book says. A museum of beer—except you can actually drink the stuff.” I said, “Provided you pay, of course.” They kept looking closely at different bottles, oohing and ahhing, at different names and different labels. Andy descended the stairs and walked to the couple. He began chatting with them. I listened, admiring how fun-loving, welcoming, and earnest he was as he shared his considerable knowledge about each of the beers that caught their eyes. He steered them toward others as they described their preferences. He was wonderful with them. Andy was truly a man who had found his calling in life.

Daniel came downstairs with another guy who was about Daniel’s height but with blondish hair. I figured it must have been Jeff. They found space on the counter to do some figuring. It looked like Daniel was making a large or complicated purchase. The couple talking with Andy carried an assortment of beers to the counter and Andy added up their purchase. Once Daniel was finished with Jeff—they had been speaking in Dutch—he introduced me. It was a brief introduction, though, as Jeff was busy. Daniel motioned for me to follow him toward the door. He caught Andy’s eye and pointed out the door. Andy said, “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” Daniel and I walked outside for a smoke. I said,“Andy’s a character. Fun as fuck.” Daniel, stoic, “Yeah, he’s one of a kind. Don’t let his craziness fool you, though. He’s smart as a whip and he knows his beer.” I didn’t doubt it.

Daniel and I walked across the street—about eight feet—into Gollem. The experience was like walking into a medieval tavern, the only thing looking modern were the people, a mix of rusty locals, yuppies, travelers, and tourists. The place was packed. Behind the bar and on several walls were chalkboards with names of beers, alcohol content, and prices. Must have been two hundred damn beers available. Daniel mentioned that they got a lot of beers from across the street. Made sense. We were three rows of standing people from the bar, but the bartender recognized Daniel and called out his name. He asked, in Dutch, what he wanted and Daniel held up three fingers and called out “Orval.” He turned to me and said, over the noise, that Orval was a high quality Belgian beer. Excellent. The Belgians, in my opinion, made the best beers overall.

The bartender called us forward and we squeezed through the crowd to grab our beers. Daniel said something in Dutch then let me know he was running a tab. We drank in silence mostly because it was too loud to even think. Enjoyable, either way, as there was fascinating people watching and a wide mix of languages being spoken. It was international chaos in a centuries-old Dutch bar with a world-wide reputation.

Andy walked inside and found us. I was glad to see him, as much as anything because he spoke English. Daniel handed him a beer and Andy looked at Daniel with fierce gratitude. “You’re a good man, Daniel, may the Devil bless ya.” Andy continued, “Had to take care of more customers after you left. Finally able to hand the place over to Jeff for a bit. Michael—it is Michael, right?” I nodded, “Thanks for running the shop earlier. The Aussies bought over a hundred Euros worth of beer on the spot.” I raised my glass and he raised his. Daniel was looking the other way, at a woman it seemed. He excused himself and got lost in the crowd. I saw him walk up to a blonde who may or may not have been a model and she gave him a potent kiss on the lips, her arms wrapped exotically around his neck, her stomach pushing into his as she arched her back and pulled his head down with her as she leaned back, forcing him to put his arms around her to hold them both up.

Andy saw it, too, and said, “See what I mean? Wouldn't be a bit surprised if she doesn't even know 'im. Women can't help themselves around 'im, like somethin’ starts stirrin' in 'em, and they can’t resist throwin' themselves at 'im.” He took a big swig of Orval. “Ne'er mind all that, though. What brings ya ta Amterdam?” I told him a bit of my story and how I loved the spirit of the city as well as the canals, architecture, cannabis, shrooms, women—” Andy stopped me at women. “The women, you're fuckin’ right about that one, Michael. The fucking women and the fucking drugs. Amsterdam’s king on both fronts, that much is fact.” Andy finished his beer then said, "Finish your beer and we'll go have a smoke." I pounded the rest and followed Andy outside.

I was about to light up a cigarette, but Andy handed me a metallic blue rocket snorter, the best friend of the fluffhead on the go. I clicked and sniffed then clicked the other direction and tooted before handing it back to Andy. He wiped it clean with an interesting little fabric cloth then geeked up. I pulled out a smoke and lit up. Damn me if cigarettes don’t taste best after a zippity doo dah. Andy had been talking a mile a minute earlier but now there was lightning flashing out of his mouth. He was a world-class bullshitter, putting me to shame. I loved it. So rare to find a truly great bullshit artist, a person who truly loves every word uttered. I thanked Andy for the yayo, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m nothin' if not a gentleman.” I blew a smoke ring up into the air and laughed. “You’re a fucking good man, Andy. A fine man.”

We walked back inside. Andy, like Daniel, knew the bartender. Of course he did. So weird how shit happens, but I was meeting all the right people to have all the best experiences. So many good things happened day after day, week after week, that I began believing this was normal, that anyone could live this life, that it was just a matter of waking up in the morning, walking outside, and meandering about until someone wonderful came along to change your life. The city seemed that magical to me and my experiences, hell, they provided evidence. During those moments, I believed it was possible for anyone because, well, why the hell not?

What mattered at that moment, though, was that Andy knew the bartender which moved our order ahead of about a dozen others. In moments, we received two Orvals. We tried to see if we could find Daniel. He was in the upstairs area, a sort of loft space half a floor above the main floor, sitting at a table with a number of women. They all looked like models. One of them was kissing Daniel, a blonde, but I didn’t think it was the same woman who had been kissing him earlier. It didn't appear that she was even at the table. That made me smile. What a lovely fucking city. When I turned to Andy he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing more to say.

Andy had me try a new beer each time we ordered and he explained why this one was good, that one was great, and the other one was going to be “forever your sweetheart.” If only I had remembered the names. With Daniel still occupied, Andy and I stepped outside for another go. He handed me the rocket launcher and I took care of business. After he jacked himself up he pulled out a joint. I laughed as he lit up and passed it to me. I took a good hit and passed it back. Drinking, smoking, and snorting. Fucking fuck. Andy may have been a great storyteller, but he wasn’t bullshitting about the drugs or the women. If it hadn’t been for the candy I would have been wasted. I was fucked up, anyway. Andy saw it. He pulled the rocket out again and handed it to me. “You need some fuel, Yank. Were you drinking earlier?” I nodded yes, “I had a few at Bloem before we raced over here.” He declared, “That's a good man. You’ll be snoggered by midnight, but I’ll keep you going into the wee hours if need be.”

Daniel walked outside just after I lit a cigarette. Andy offered him the last toke off his joint, but Daniel graciously declined. As Andy finished the roach, I asked Daniel about the women inside. He lit up and said, “Just a few friends I hadn’t seen in a while.” I said, “Friends, huh? I need more friends who kiss me like that.” He shrugged. “They were just hello kisses.” Hello kisses? Jesus, what do “stick around for more” kisses look like?

We went back inside and ordered another round. Daniel and Andy shared the tab. I tried to pay, but I couldn’t get close enough. I offered to give Daniel money for paying my bill—it was Daniel who did—but he shook his head no. I dropped it; to protest any further would have been rude. I thanked him, though. He put his arm around me. “You’ll get the next one.” Part of me doubted that. Daniel had a slight tipsiness to him, but it was almost imperceptible. Andy, meanwhile, looked stoned while also excessively energized. “Fuck me, I need to take care of a few things at the shop. Where you heading next?” Daniel said, “O’Reilly’s.” Andy said he would try to meet us there.

Daniel and I unlocked our bikes and cycled to Paliesstraat. We parked our bikes and locked them. We went inside the Irish pub and over to the bar. The dining section was packed, but the bar was relatively empty. Of course, any place would have felt empty after Gollem. Daniel ordered for us, Irish beers, then the manager or possibly owner came over to talk with Daniel, shaking his hand. Fuck, Daniel really did know everyone in the city. Ten years working in the scene might do that for a fellow, especially a person as unique as Daniel. He introduced me to the man and we shook hands. I listened as he and Daniel talked shop.

As the man walked away to take care of other customers, Daniel mentioned that a friend of his was seeing the guy. “She can do so much better. I don’t know what she sees in him. A thing for older guys, maybe, but he treats her like shit.” Daniel seemed to like him well enough in terms of the bar business, but not at all when it came to how he treated his friend. Daniel quietly told me some of the specifics and, even though I didn’t know his friend, I didn’t like what I heard. Daniel raised his eyebrows for a second and sighed before taking a drink. When the guy came back I felt like knocking his teeth out. Odd, I didn’t know the guy, but I felt protective of Daniel and his friends. I could hear my inner voice say, “Don’t fuck with my people.” Some primal or tribal area of the brain had been activated.

Other than internally feeling malicious toward the guy, I breathed easily, calmly. Daniel ordered a hamburger and fries. He said, “I’m not a hamburger man, but this place serves the best burgers in Amsterdam.” I realized I needed food so I ordered a burger and fries as well. Daniel was right; the burger was delicious. When we finished I paid our tab. Daniel smiled, patted me on the back, and said “I told you you’d get the next one.” I laughed and we were on our way.

It was close to midnight and Daniel got a call from Andy. Daniel asked if I wanted to go to another bar, this one a dive. “It’s one of Andy’s spots. Cheap beer, pool tables, and heavy metal.” I said sure. I was overdressed for it while Daniel was dressed in a way that allowed him to fit in just about anywhere in the city. I followed Daniel as we rode along. I was too heavily buzzed to know where were going and I didn’t care. I just tried to keep up with him; Daniel was just as adept riding with beers in him as he was when he was sober.

We arrived outside a place that was thumping mean and evil, possibly Slayer. There were bicycles locked up all over the place. I loved the fact that headbangers were cycling to a heavy metal bar. We went inside and sure enough half the crowd had rocker hair, leather jackets, and heavy metal t-shirts. Black Sabbath was now blazing through speakers all over the bar. Andy waved us over to a pool table and we played a few rounds. I played quite a bit in Chicago, but I told Andy and Daniel I wasn’t all that good. Naturally, I proceeded to pocket balls as if I was Minnesota Fats. They were both excellent pool players, though, so the games we played were competitive.

Daniel got stuck in the ass by a neighboring pool cue. For the very first time, I saw Daniel lose his cool. He was pissed and he got in the guy’s face, a thick guy who had a half a foot on Daniel. He looked mean, but when I saw the look on Daniel’s face, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the other guy. Daniel was athletic, but more importantly, a guy as cool as he was usually had reason to be. His confidence didn’t stem merely from his looks, intelligence, or experience. I was now seeing how fierce he could be. The only other person I had ever been around with such a seething rage was ... me. Daniel reminded me of myself in many ways, although I had never been the Casanova he was and even though at times I felt a stoic cool I was far more expressively emotional than he was. Otherwise, though, I saw plenty of similarities. He had an air of knowing what was happening all around him at all times and that I recognized well. He was one of the few people I had ever seen who had that quality. No way to pigeon hole anyone with that quality; no way to really know what's happening internally at any time no matter what might be showing on the surface. Made me wonder that much more about him.

Andy settled things down—apparently he knew the other guy. Daniel was still seething, more emotional than I had ever seen him. It wasn’t the first time the other table had annoyed us, but getting stuck in the ass with a pool cue was clearly the last straw for Daniel. We had been drinking for about eight hours by then, too. Beers more than anything. On the one hand, it was unsettling to see him lose his cool; on the other hand, his fury was exhilarating. Violence on the verge touched me in a certain way. I could feel my juices flowing, too. I thought about how fun it would have been to join Daniel in a fight against the guys at the other table. Daniel had the look I usually felt, the look of a man ready to fight in a frenzy, to fight to the death. A special kind of life force emerges in such a primal state. I had such an odd relationship with violence and rage, a conflicted history. Rage, true rage, surfaces from somewhere, from something, but it's too complex and almost otherworldly to be attributed merely to experiences of trauma, abuse, or neglect. The sources and meanings are far more mysterious than paperback psychology suggests.

Andy bailed out soon after the incident. Daniel and I left after another beer. Daniel looked drunk, the first time I had seen him look wasted. I was toasted, too, but I’d had help from Andy earlier. Daniel unlocked his bike and said “That was fun. See you soon, Michael.” I was about to respond, but I saw him fishing through his pockets. “Fuck! I forgot my keys at Bloem.” He looked at me and I said, “We can bike back to Bloem to get them. That’s cool with me.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I left all my keys at Bloem. Shit.” My first thought was, “Let's find those women from Gollem!” I was just joking with myself, though. I said, “Hey, you can crash at my place. I’ve got beers at my apartment.” Daniel said, “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.” I frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can stay. Come on, let’s go.” This time I led with Daniel following. If he hadn’t been drunk he probably would have been frustrated that we rode so much slower than he typically did. I shot up Spui to Leidsestraat, which was eerily dead at this late hour, then turned left on Kerkstraat.

When we arrived at my place, we locked our bikes, went inside, and I got Susan’s mail before unlocking the apartment. Daniel checked the place out. “This is a great place, Michael.” I said, “Yeah, I like it a lot. It’s a great neighborhood, too. I’ve got satellite TV and radio, too, if you want to chill out. You can crash on one of the couches tonight. I’ll get you a couple blankets. You want a beer first?” I had Hoegaarden and Columbus. Daniel chose Columbus and I went to the bedroom to grab a couple blankets. Daniel had taken a seat and turned on the TV. I took a seat and lit a cigarette; Daniel had one, too. I went to the kitchen to drink a glass of water then grabbed a bottle of Hoegaarden from the fridge.

Daniel took a look at the sketchbook on the table and we talked art while periodically turning our heads to the TV. He liked the sketches overall, but a few really caught his eye. I told him what Paulette had said about them and he laughed. “Yeah, I can see it. You were molested and now you’re a psychopath.” That made me laugh. Daniel seemed to have sobered up. I could tell he was a night owl; he didn’t seem tired at all. “I’m wiped out, Daniel. I’m going to hit the hay, but feel free to grab anything you want from the kitchen--beer, juice, food, whatever. The TV and stereo you got. Do you need anything else?” Daniel said no. “Michael, thanks for letting me stay. You’re a lifesaver.” I said, “Any time. That was a fun night.” I started walking back to the bedroom, but then I asked Daniel if he needed to get up at a certain time in the morning. “Yeah, but I have an alarm in my phone. I’ll call Isa or someone in the morning to meet me at Bloem so I can get my keys.” Cool. I said goodnight as Daniel settled under the blankets while watching TV.

Amsterdam Fifty-Nine: Chance Encounters

I laid in bed the next morning after I woke. “How did that happen?” The sequence of events that make up a person’s life are mind-bogglingly random. Meeting Sterre was a happy accident. It made me think of the first woman I met after my separation. I was having a beer on a Friday night at a neighborhood bar in Lincoln Park. It was the first time in four months I had gone out on a Friday night. I spent most days working, jogging, and cycling that summer, going out occasionally on weekday nights to bars that were dead or filled with locals watching Cubs or White Sox games.

Somehow I had been feeling better about myself that week so I decided to go out. I went out early, wanting to avoid the busyness of the later-evening bar scene, to a place I had been visiting occasionally during the week: The Burwood Tap. Nicki, my favorite bartender, was working the back bar where it was quieter. She poured incredibly stiff drinks for those of us coming in regularly or semi-regularly, those of us who tipped her well. She was all about the tips because she was paid shit wages. It was great for us because we paid way less than we would have if she had served the drinks straight up—even if we hadn't tipped at all. She also wore low-cut tops exposing substantial cleavage. All in all, she was a popular bartender. It didn’t hurt that tons of DePaul students went out to drink on Friday nights, either. They never tipped so they always got shitty service.

I was sitting next to a guy I had gotten to know casually, just a Joe at a bar. We were watching baseball and bullshitting about nothing, drinking beers. The place started filling up around nine and by ten it was packed, SRO. Another reason to hit the bar early. When I first saw it getting busy I took a leak because I knew if I got up again I would lose my seat forever.

I didn’t even notice the woman who had been sitting on my left. I was so far outside the world of hitting on women, trying to pick them up, that I was invested in drinking beer, watching baseball, and bullshitting with the Joe to my right. I didn’t even know how to talk with women as a single guy—I hadn’t been single since the early ’90s and there I was, out in the wilds again in the mid-2000s. Neither the Internet nor cell phones were en vogue the last time I had been single. What the fuck did I know about talking to a woman in this new age?

A cute Asian woman tapped me on my shoulder. “Would you mind moving so I can sit next to my friend?” I looked all around me. There wasn’t an open seat anywhere. I said to her, sarcastically and disdainfully, “You want me to stand up, lose my choice location at the bar, and never be able to order a beer again all night just so you can sit next to your friend?” She paused and said, “Well, yeah.” I scoffed. “Woman, I’m not moving a fucking inch. What, you think because you’re cute I’m just going to hand over the keys to the best seat in the house? I’m sure that works for you most of the time, but you picked the wrong fucking guy. I’m going to sit here while you wander around aimlessly trying to get guys to buy you drinks while your friend and I get to know one another better.” She guffawed and her friend who was sitting next to me, Shelby, laughed and told her friend to get lost. Shelby was wearing a baseball cap with auburn-red hair poking out the back in a ponytail; fucking sexy. I lost touch with my drinking buddy to the right—an unspoken male code of conduct that exists timelessly no matter the generation. Instead, I drank beers with Shelby for a couple hours, just letting it all fly. She was almost like a guy the way she talked baseball and gave me shit about anything and everything. A tomboy. Fuck, I had always had a thing for tomboys.

We ended up making out in front of her apartment later that night. She didn’t invite me up, but we lived within a mile of one another so we went out the next night. And the next. And the next. Soon we were going out, on the verge of developing some semblance of a relationship that extended beyond drinking and sex. I hung out with her friends, she hung out with some of mine, we went to movies together, all the makings of a couple. Being in a relationship was the one thing I really knew how to do at that point in my life. Unfortunately, it was way too soon and I fell too far, too fast, pretty much freaking her out. My first rebound, a random happening, first time out on a Friday night as a single guy in Chicago.

I got out of bed, showered, got dressed, and went out on my bike. My thoughts were wandering back to my chance meeting of Sterre and the sexy surprise of Auriana’s party. I rode toward the Oude Zijde and meandered down lazy streets, admiring the old buildings and canals. It felt like ages since I had been in the neighborhood. As I rode, new thoughts popped into my head, all related to chance encounters, how seemingly inconsequential events altered the course of my life. The night I met S. was a fluke, too. I went to a college buddy’s place to chill out for the evening without any intention of going out. It was a Wednesday night in February, cold, and I was broke. I wanted to veg out, play video games, and scam my friend into ordering a pizza so I could eat.

My friend wasn’t there, though. For the first time since I had returned to college after a semester off, I experienced anxiety. I didn’t want to be alone and everyone else I knew who lived in a dorm or off-campus nearby was busy or out. I walked to a popular bar and saw Georgianne, a friend of an ex-girlfriend, at a table. My thought was, “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a pitcher of beer today.” I walked over and she said, “Hey” then introduced me to her friend, a woman I didn’t know: S. It was her twenty-first birthday. They each bought me beers and we had fun talking and laughing. I had no sexual interest in either one of the women; I was just looking for company to have a good time. Because of that, I was natural, myself as I was, and they invited me to an after-party. S. was flirting with me, sometimes so suggestively I thought she was desperate. I wasn’t on the same wavelength. The after-party was at my ex-girlfriend’s house, Georgianne's roommate, and I wound up messing around with another woman, a different friend of a different ex-girlfriend. But when S. left, her ass wiggling out the door, a damn fine ass, I felt like I had made the wrong choice. That didn’t stop me from continuing to mess around that night; there's just something about hooking up with friends of ex-girlfriends. Still, I thought about S. the next day.

I went out that night to a different bar and saw Georgianne again. As we talked, she asked me what I thought of S. I said she had a great ass. I asked Georgianne why she was asking. She said, “Well, I think S. is interested. She’s really nice, Mike, very sweet." I was thinking she was more sexual than sweet, but whatever. "We’re having a party tomorrow night and she’s going to be there." I said okay, I would swing by. This was the same house as the after-party, my ex-girlfriend’s house. I showed up around ten and S. was halfway in the bag. About eight people were playing a drinking game and I pulled up a chair to sit down. S. got out of her seat, hopped onto my lap, planted one on me, and generally acted the fool. It was embarrassing; the party was filled with friends who went way back and my ex-girlfriend was at the table with us—the same ex-girlfriend who a month earlier asked if I wanted to get back together. I said no; she had dumped me. I felt like I was rubbing my nose in her face, though, making out with two different women in her own house in a matter of days. Not my intention; it just worked out that way.

S. and I did everything but fuck on the fold-out couch in the living room that night. Kirsten, one of four roommates living in the house, walked into the living room the next morning. When she saw us under the sheets, she threw up her hands and said, “Jesus, Mike! You get more action in my house than I do. What the fuck?”

S. and I had our first “date” two days later on Valentine’s Day. I was wary—Valentine’s Day is for girlfriends and boyfriends, not one-night stands. Still, I liked her despite her social obliviousness and she clearly liked me. Plus, she was extremely sexual. I liked sex. Who doesn’t? I had intended to take her out to dinner, but we wound up having sex in her apartment twenty minutes after I arrived. What the hell? I had met the perfect woman, a woman who liked to fuck as much as I did! We started seeing each other often, our relationship almost exclusively consisting of night-long fucking, but after a couple months we started making love. We still fucked, but as we got to know one another’s bodies more and more, the sex became more intimate and that led to more open, honest, and vulnerable conversations.

That was a first for me with a woman, to expose myself emotionally so much. I don’t know how the myth started that sex is only emotional for women, but that wasn’t my experience. A real relationship with more balance developed as we discovered we shared a lot of the same values and outlooks on life. She was extraordinarily intelligent, valedictorian of her high school and valedictorian in college within the department of English. Later she went to a top ten law school in the Bay Area. While I loved passion and sex, I couldn't be in a relationship with a woman who wasn't extremely bright, creative in her thinking, compassionate, interested in helping others, confident while being humble, playful, and full of life. Her social awkwardness was mostly related to her inability to hold her alcohol--mostly because she rarely drank. She was good for me in many ways, not the least of which was keeping my wildness from running rampant.

If the friend I had intended to hang out with had been home that Wednesday night when I met S. then the course of my life … well, there’s no way to know what would have happened alternatively, but it would have been radically different. In terms of human relationships there is no probability. It’s unpredictable, random chaos that fizzles in moments and flowers in others. Gravity is predictable, but human affairs are immeasurably more complicated. We may be “small” in terms of size throughout the cosmos, but the course of a given human life is more complicated and unpredictable than anything else that's been discovered in the universe. Hyper-awareness and profound attentiveness have predictive capacities, but only marginally in relation to the flow of humanity.

I found my good old smart shop in the Oude Zijde and purchased a dose of McKennaii. I wasn’t sure if I would shroom later, but I wanted a dose on hand in case. I had to toss out the dose I had in the fridge because it had molded over the weekend. I was so distracted by my thoughts that the first time in ages I didn’t even notice whether the woman serving me at the counter was attractive. It was a smart shop so it was a given that she was. Still, not noticing was unlike me. I was immersed in a mixture of reflection and reverie.

As I biked back home I thought of Sterre. That meeting seemed even more random than the others. The sequence of events that led to the sex party were so quirky and unexpected that I would have thought myself insane if I had mapped out the course of action. “Let’s see, I’ll talk to this colorfully dressed woman since I woke up on the bridge after a night of shrooming, walk along beside her and ramble playful stream-of-conscious blather, discover she’s an autonomist who wants me to call her Che, meet her at a squatters' restaurant, talk social anarchism and political activism, hook up with her two weeks later for dinner and instead go to a party where I have sex with four women in two days, including a multitude of hot, diverse, and intimate sexual experiences with a lesbian, one of which involved a vibrator being plunged into my ass by the party's hostess. Ho-hum, another predictably typical sequence of events after a random encounter with a stranger.”

I whistled and sang as I biked home thinking there was no way I was going to get any work done that the afternoon.

Amsterdam Fifty-Eight: Too Much Sex?

I woke up spooning Eliene. I kissed her back, squeezed my arm around her stomach, and shook my hips against hers. An “mmmph” was followed by slurred Dutch whispers as she stirred then came to rest again. She was out. What time was it? I rolled away from her looking for an alarm clock, any clock. Nothing. What the fuck did it matter, anyway? Auriana wasn't in bed, either, so I rolled back to Eliene and spooned her again. More garbled Dutch whispers and a “hrrrrrmph” that said “let me sleep!” I went downstairs to use the bathroom and squeezed toothpaste onto my finger to brush. I went back to bed facing the sleeping Eliene and curled up to her, lazily slipping into a half sleep.

Later, I was stirred by movement. I don’t know what came out of my mouth, but it wasn’t happy. Sleep, more sleep. More movement then blowing in my ear. Fuck, why? I opened my eyes and Eliene’s face was an inch from mine. “Are you asleep?” Her breath smelled like mints. I closed my eyes and shook my head yes. She shook me hard and I woke up, an angry bear. “Ellie, no. Sleep.” She giggled and shook me even harder. I groaned then stretched. “You called me ‘Ellie.’ Only my mother calls me that.” I tried to keep my eyes open as I rolled into her and draped my arms around her. “Sorry, Ellie.” In a split second I had nearly fallen asleep again, but Ellie laughed in my face.

“What?” Eliene said, “You called me ‘Ellie’ again!” Oh. “Sorry.” She kissed my nose causing my eyes to open a little. “No, it’s cute. You can call me Ellie.” I nodded, closed my eyes, and turned onto my stomach. Eliene’s hand slipped under my stomach and crept down between my legs. I stirred, “Are you trying to wake me up?” I opened an eye and saw Eliene nodding her head. I closed my eye and said, “It’s working.”

I rolled over and pulled Eliene closer. “I like calling you Ellie. It fits your personality.” Eliene pulled her hand from between my legs and I said, “Nooooo. I thought you were trying to wake me up?” It didn’t work. Eliene rested her head on the pillow next to me. I asked her where Auriana was. Eliene shrugged. “Probably working.” Oh. “What day is it?” Eliene laughed a little. “I don’t know. Monday? Does it matter?” Hmmm. “Not really.” I turned to face her. “So what you’re saying is that I should move in with you, huh?” Eliene widened her eyes and snickered. “I’m not leaving until you make me. It’s against my principles to willingly leave women who bring me pleasure.” Eliene shrugged. “Who said anything about leaving?”

Yeah, why did I bring that up? I guess I thought I would help clean and then go. I couldn’t make assumptions like that with Eliene or Auriana. Probably not with anyone, but especially them. I wasn’t sure the party ever stopped, but then again Auriana was apparently working so life was not endless sex. Unfortunate. Sex was the meaning of life. Biology said so and who was I to argue against biology? I wondered how I could make sex my way of life. Late 30s male escort? Probably not. Probably too late to start a career in porn, too. Besides, I didn’t want porn sex or really even escort sex. I wanted, well, womanly sex.

I asked Eliene, “Was the sex womanly last night?” Eliene flipped onto her back and her whole body rippled with laughter. “I can’t tell if that’s a yes or a no. Judging from the way you’re laughing I’m worried we had clown sex.” Her head shook from side to side, her black hair waving back and forth. “I bet there is clown sex, like a whole scene going on with people dressed up like clowns getting it on, everyone wearing dildo noses and big red clown-afro pubic hair. They probably meet in circus tents and fuck on unicycles.” Eliene rolled away from me, her torso convulsing. I crept up behind her and put my arm around her, buried my face into the back of her neck, and said, “Come on, let’s have clown sex.” Her hand went up in the air as her body continued roiling. A sound finally escaped, a squealing “Noooo!” then full-bodied laughter. “Damn, I wanted to clown-shoe fuck you until you laughed to death. Maybe another time.”

Eliene sat up and looked around. She turned to me, smirking: “No. You will never clown-fuck me.” I fell back, my stomach tightening from laughter. Clown fucking. It probably really was a thing. I watched Eliene stretch, her muscles extending, her head back, her mouth wide, her hair hanging almost to the bed. I felt my midsection warm, becoming aroused. Ouch! The more erect I became the more my cock hurt. Sore, raw. Probably latex poisoning, too. I wasn’t even sure how many condoms I had worn. Enough to make erections hurt. Shit.

Eliene noticed I was hard and she turned to face me as she brought her arms down. “Oh, hello. Look who decided to wake up!” I shook my head. “I’m sore.” She crawled over to me, “Poor baby. Too much sex for you.” No! Never! “Well, when you put it that way, it’s not really so bad.” She slapped my chest and got out of bed. “No, too late.” I yelled, “Noooo! It was a joke. There's never been too much sex. Ever!” She shrugged her shoulders and disappeared down the stairs. Shit.

I made myself get up, putting on the nightshirt I had worn before Auriana began her sex lessons. When I got downstairs I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I peeled an orange and ate a few slices before Eliene returned from the bathroom and saw me. I held out a slice to her and she walked over to take it. I washed my hands and poured her a glass of water while she ate the rest of the orange. She was still naked so after I gave her the glass I allowed my fingers to roam through her pubic hair. Not as silky and soft as the previous day, but then again we’d had sex throughout the night. She smelled like sex. Damn, that got me aroused again. I was conflicted. My dick was sore, but I was horny.

Before I could think anything else Eliene asked me to join her in the shower. Fuck. “Yes.” Fuck. Well, maybe soap and water would help. Maybe. I took off the nightshirt and got into the shower with Eliene. The water was warm, almost hot. It felt incredible on my back and legs then my chest, stomach and—“Owww!” I turned around quickly holding my package. Oh, Jesus, that hurt. Eliene asked, with concern, if I was okay. I nodded yes, but I could feel tears welling in my eyes. I didn’t realize I was that sore!

Eliene very, very, very gently applied a soapy hand. She didn’t even stroke, she just sort of allowed the soap to flow from her hand onto me. There was a little sting from the soap, but not bad. Well, fuck. After we managed to get clean we exited the shower. I dried myself carefully. Eliene couldn’t help herself. She tried not to laugh, but little snickers and twitters escaped from her lips. “You know how horrible this is?” She softened and pressed her body against mine. God, her flesh felt good. No! Too good! I pulled away. “Shit, I can’t even be near you right now!” I sobbed—not really, but not entirely fake. Still, Eliene giggled and slowly shook her ass out the door. “Not funny, Ellie! Put on some clothes.” I realized what I had just said. "No, no, no, I was joking. You should be naked all day, maybe the rest of your life."

To my chagrin she put on clothes, though. Stupid, stupid cock. We needed to clean up the apartment, anyway and the clothes were sexy at least: a tight t-shirt, no bra, short shorts, and below-the-ankle rainbow-striped socks. Meanwhile, I continued wearing the nightshirt that fit too snuggly in the shoulders--my penis wasn't ready for underwear and pants. It was early afternoon so we ate a quick lunch before cleaning up. We took the sheets and the bin of “used” towels and dumped them in the laundry machine, moved the folding mattresses and cushions back to the spare bedroom, opened windows to air the rooms out, emptied the wastebaskets into one giant bag of garbage, put the furniture back in place, cleaned the bathroom, and all the other oddities that needed tidying.

It was late afternoon by the time we finished. We had fun while we worked and the place looked presentable, not at all like there had been a grand hookah-smoking sexfest. As for me, I liked the look of a place made raunchy from sex. My Architectural Digest pad wouldn’t be quite so neat and clean. There would be couches stained with body fluids, glass-topped coffee tables with a mound of cocaine, a hash-pit for tumblers and flowblowers, ceiling swings with ankle cuffs dangling from the seats, a modified pommel horse for gymnastic sex performances, underwear strewn all over the floor, maybe a tapestry of sexy lingerie sewn together, cock sculptures and dildo trees placed throughout the apartment, vagina paintings on the walls, rainbow-colored bean bags, curtains made from strips of condom packages, mint-filled candy dishes spread throughout, and floors made of bouncy rubber covered by silk sheets.

But that was just me. The place looked great as it was and I helped Eliene bake a lasagna, the first vegan lasagna I had ever prepared. All in a day’s work. Eliene had started the process while were cleaning and there was nothing left to do but set the table. As we did, I asked her what time she expected Auriana. “Don't know.” I asked her what type of work Auriana did. “She’s a sex therapist.” Of course she was! I had missed my calling in life.

After Eliene removed the lasagna from the oven, we went to the living room. I was beat and so was she. We lied down on the couch and Eliene spooned me, her hand drifting downward ever so slowly. I winced when I felt stirrings from below, but to my surprise the pain was mostly gone. By the time her hand reached the jackpot, I was fully erect and relatively pain free. Oh, happy day! I rolled over and kissed Eliene, my own hands now roaming her body.

Auriana walked in the door as we were making out. I heard her laugh as she moved around. "Is this what you've been doing all day?" Eliene broke our liplock and sat up. "Look around." I heard Auriana say, "Wow, you really cleaned the place up. It looks great." Eliene got up. Damnit. She told Auriana that there was a lasagna ready. I got up and walked over. Auriana hugged me then went up the stairs, presumably to change into more comfortable clothes. Eliene took the lasagna to the table, filled the water glasses, and poured wine. After Auriana came downstairs and out of the bathroom we all sat down to eat.

We enjoyed a fun conversation that went all over the place, from Eliene’s childhood in France to Auriana’s sex workshops to my shrooming insights. Eliene humiliated me with stories about my sore penis—which was feeling much better, thank you very much. I found many of Auriana’s ideas about human sexuality matched my insights about sensations and feelings. Naturally. She was an expert on sensation and emotion--not just through her work, I could attest to that.

I helped clean up after we finished eating. We took glasses of wine to the living room to chill. We all huddled together on the couch, Auriana with her head in Eliene's lap and her legs draped over me. I gave her a foot massage as Eliene stroked her hair. It was a relaxing, enjoyable, quietly sensual evening, but I felt an internal tension as the hour grew late. I really wanted to stay, but I knew Auriana needed to work again the next day, too. Even if Eliene and I didn’t need a break, she did. I realized I never thought to ask Eliene if she went to school or worked or … what she did during her days. She might have been a stay-at-home partner. I would have been happy if she was my stay-at-home sexpot, especially since I worked from home. That made me think of my first few years living with my ex; we both worked at home together for five years. Afternoon delights were a near daily occurrence. Stay-at-home couples stay together … because they have sex all the time. Well, we did, anyway. She ruined everything by going to law school then working in the corporate world. Nothing ruins great sex more than law and corporations.

At the moment, though, the issue was whether to stay or go and whether to even bring up the subject. It was enjoyable just hanging out, but I didn't want to put them out by staying too late or staying over. I finally said, “Well … what do you think? I mean, you have to work tomorrow, right Auriana?” She nodded her head. She looked up at Eliene. “What do you think, El?” Eliene shrugged her shoulders. “I’m okay either way.” She looked over at me, smiling. "It's up to you. You're the one who has to get up early. I'm, well, it's fun having Michael here. You're tired, though. I can tell." Auriana sighed. "I am. I wish I wasn't." Eliene looked at me with those dark brown eyes. She was just looking at me, nothing suggestive. Didn’t matter. “Fuck, Ellie, even when you’re not sexual I get turned on. We didn’t have sex today, either.” Eliene countered, “That’s not my fault. You’re the one who was sore.” I smiled. “I’m not sore any more, though.”

Auriana laughed. “Oh. Michael, Michael, Michael. If I didn’t have to work tomorrow …” I nodded my head. “Yeah, I know. You need a real night’s sleep.” Shit. I hadn’t had sex all day. Ha! After two days of nearly non-stop sex a day without an orgasm seemed just plain wrong. I was spoiled. Auriana said, "Look, if you two want to have fun together, that's fine by me. I need to sleep either way." Without thinking, I said, "Yeah, but you and Ellie haven't had any time to yourselves for days. I feel like I'd be getting in the way of that." Auriana sat up. "I just noticed you call El 'Ellie.' That's so funny! El, when did he start doing that?" Eliene said, "This morning. I thought it was cute." Auriana smiled. "It is. Your mom calls you that." It felt like such an intimate moment between the three of us. Oddly enough, I was feeling like I was "part of the family." It was so easy being with them.  They were really wonderful. I said as much and received "awwws" in return.

Still, the problem hadn't been resolved, not fully. I felt I should probably go, though, but I wanted to let Eliene make the decision. I could have made my goodbyes, but, damn, there's just no such thing as too much sex! I looked at Eliene, pleading in my heart for her to say "stay," but not expecting it. When things settled down, I waited. There was an awkward silence. I didn't want to be the first to speak, but it was clear no one else was. I think Eliene didn't want to say no to me, but also wanted to be with Auriana. Tough position for her. I sighed, leaned forward in my seat, my elbows on my knees and my hands folded, and somberly looked at the two of them. “The only solution to this problem is for me masturbate while you watch.” Both Eliene and Auriana laughed uncontrollably. In perfect deadpan I said, “What, would it be better if the three of us masturbated together? Because I'm okay with that, too.”

Eliene said, “You are terrible! But now you got it in my head and I—” she laughed through the rest, “want to watch you.” Auriana sat up and said something in Dutch to Eliene, causing her to double over. They laughingly spoke with each other in Dutch, each statement making the other laugh harder. I felt like I should just whip out my dick and jerk off, but their faces were so red I thought blood vessels might burst if I made them laugh any harder.

Auriana said, “Michael, you are too funny. Oh, that was good.” I said, “I know it was good; you two just had laughing orgasms. I haven’t even whipped out my dick yet.” That just got them going again. “I really want to fuck you while you’re laughing like that. I can’t even imagine how good it would feel to be inside you while your vagina’s convulsing in giggles and snorts.” They just kept going and so did I, one-liner after one-liner. I could have been a stand-up comic—I had thought that on many occasions—but I never liked the idea of performances being limited to comedy. I didn’t want to be pigeon-holed. I could get into a routine where I did stand-up on Mondays, drawings on Tuesdays, varied street performances on Wednesdays, writing on Thursdays, and sex parties Friday through Sunday. That would be a good life. Maybe substitute political activism for drawing every other week. Or just fuck the schedule altogether and do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. Kind of hard to do sex parties whenever I wanted, though. Having other people present to participate was pretty much a necessity. It would be more like a masturbation marathon if I was alone.

“If only there were sex parties seven days a week all year round.” Auriana said, “There probably are. You’d have to meet a lot of people, though.” That was probably true. “Too much work. I would just like everybody everywhere having sex parties 24/7, people putting signs on their doors like, ‘Sex Party Here: Looking for Two More Women and One More Guy.’ There’d probably be signs that read, 'Sex Party Full Tonight; Come Back Tomorrow and Put Your Name on the List.' Am I right? I want to live in that world.” Auriana shook her head. “Good luck with that, Michael.” I responded, “Hey, no reason to be defeatist. A boy has to have his dreams.” Eliene shook her head and threw a couch pillow at me. “Ellie, I’d prefer to be here with you and Auriana every night, but I need a backup plan.” They both chuckled.

It was nearly eleven. “I should get going. If you two weren't so sexy and delicious and erotic and vivacious and womanly it would be easy to pop on out of here. I'm so glad Sterre invited me.” I was on the verge of gushing, but I needed to get dressed. Auriana embraced me when I came out of the bedroom. "I'm so glad you stayed, Michael. You were smoking yesterday." I leaned back. "Me? You started the fire, woman." Eliene came over to kiss and hug me. "I hope you come back soon." I kissed her long enough that we were essentially making out and as she pulled away, my knees a little wobbly and my groin heating up, I said, "Whew, um, yeah, whenever you want me over just let me know. I can be here tomorrow morning if you'd like, Ellie." Eliene and Auriana laughed at me. "What? You can't kiss me like that and expect me to do anything but swoon!"

We exchanged emails and they said they’d be in touch. I put on my shoes, another round of hugs and kisses, none lingering this time--I would never leave if they kept kissing me like that. Who would? They said goodbye as I left and I made my way down the stairs. I walked outside, the first time in three days, and as I unlocked my bike I said to myself, “I have no fucking idea where I am right now.”